


Revelation

by vix_spes



Series: Fire in the Blood [1]
Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Three Musketeers (2011), Young Blades (TV)
Genre: #Youngboots, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bring Back The Porn Challenge, First Time, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Pain Kink, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 14:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15865734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: Young boys who wanted to become a Musketeer were ten-a-penny in Paris and usually beneath the attention of the Comte de Rochefort. The newest one though? The Gascon? He's something of a revelation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/gifts).



> Another year and another BBTP challenge gives me an opportunity to revisit one of my favourite Madancy rarepairs!

 

He was not used to people being unafraid of him. He was the Comte de Rochefort; simply his name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of most Parisians. Then again, this was no Parisian, this was a mere boy from Gascony. It was undoubtedly ignorance – and probably a little stupidity – that had led to the boy’s insolence. Still, Rochefort had admired his balls, even as he and his men had outwardly mocked him. After all, there were not many who had the gall to confront the Comte de Rochefort and over a piss-poor excuse for a horse no less.

It had been a similar incident that had seen Rochefort run across the young Gascon a second time. On this occasion, the encounter was in a tavern within the city limits rather than just outside of them but, just as before, the boy had got himself into a war of words with Rochefort’s men and, like a cornered rat, was refusing to give up without a fight. By the time that Rochefort had been fetched, he had already challenged Jussac and two more of Rochefort’s senior guards to duels. Once again, Rochefort had to admire his balls, but the boy was going to get himself killed.

In theory, Rochefort had no problem with that. One less country bumpkin who aspired to be a Musketeer of all things was no skin off his nose. All he cared about was whether his men got blamed for it or not. More than that, he cared if he got reamed out by Cardinal Richelieu. And then he got a good look at the brat in the firelight of the tavern, porcelain skin glowing, sea-change eyes spitting fire from beneath the longest eyelashes Rochefort had ever seen and that insouciant mouth hissing out curses and threats.

It made his cock twitch.

Rochefort had always gravitated towards lovers that would give him something to work for; he had no time for the simpering, pliant ladies and perfumed boys of the court. He liked a spitfire in his sheets. Even that couldn’t fully account for his relatively lengthy affair with Milady de Winter – or Lady Clarick as he had known her – given that the high possibility of having a knife buried in your back during sex did tend to affect your ability to perform. And then he’d lost his eye and any interest from those at court disappeared, so that the only opportunity for him to have company was to pay for it and no amount of coin could make the whores look anything but reluctant.

This little Gascon spitfire was exactly what Rochefort wanted in his bed. Or up against a wall. Or across a convenient table. Anything really. Besides, the boy was prettier than all of the whores Rochefort had ever seen and most of the court besides. A lecherous grin spreading across his face, he made a motion to stand his men down.

“Return to the barracks, I’ll deal with the Gascon pup.”

Rochefort waited until he heard the sound of his guards’ hooves retreating over the cobbles before he wrapped a hand around the nape of the boy’s neck and hustled him out to the stables. Once there, he steered the boy to an empty stall at the far end.

“What’s your name, pup?”

“D’Artagnan. Charles d’Artagnan.”

“Well, d’Artagnan. On your knees.” The boy sputtered and wriggled like an alley cat, but he was no match for Rochefort, who forced him to his knees, the pad of his thumb tracing over that plush mouth. “This mouth of yours has a tendency to get you into trouble; I have a better use for it.”

Using his grip on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to keep him down, Rochefort used his free hand to free his cock from his breeches. He was already half-hard, and it didn’t take more than a few rough strokes to bring himself to full erectness, his cock leaking pre-come. He took great delight in slapping his shaft across d’Artagnan’s face, making those plush lips glisten. Rochefort then proceeded to force his cock past that ridiculous pout, watching as those full, red lips blanched white as they stretched around his girth.

Rochefort knew that he had a pretty sizeable shaft, so he was more than a little impressed when the pup managed to take half of it down his throat before he started gagging and spluttering. Not that Rochefort was remotely sympathetic. He pulled back enough so that d’Artagnan could grab a few gasping breaths and then he was shoving himself back into that hot, wet mouth. This time, he moved his grip back into that mess of curls, using it to force d’Artagnan to take progressively more of Rochefort’s shaft into his throat.

The boy was still struggling with the act, his throat contracting furiously around Rochefort’s cock as he struggled to breathe while saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth and tears glistened in his eyes but he wasn't trying to get away. The slick sound of his cock moving in and out of d’Artagnan’s mouth, combined with the tight, wet heat meant that, all too soon for his liking, Rochefort felt his sac tighten and his balls draw up. Feeling more than a little cruel, Rochefort didn’t bother to pull back, letting the first few spurts of come shoot straight down d’Artagnan’s throat before he pulled back and directed the rest across the boy’s face. As he did so, he couldn’t help but notice that the porcelain skin was even prettier when it was covered in his come.

With the pad of his thumb, he swiped it through some of the come that striped across the boy’s cheek and held it in front of those lips, now a dark ruby following Rochefort’s abuse. Eyes that Rochefort couldn’t pinpoint the exact colour of flashed at him in defiance but, after a lengthy pause, he leant in and lapped at the digit until it was completely clean.

Not as reluctant as he had initially appeared and quite the revelation.

Rochefort was going to have fun with this one.

 


	2. Chapter 2

To Rochefort’s disappointment, in the following weeks, his fun was curtailed by the fact that the little Gascon spitfire seemed to have disappeared altogether from the streets of Paris. His men were happy about it, but Rochefort was not; he had stripped his cock raw on several occasions to the memory of flashing eyes, hot wet suction around his cock and a pretty face striped with his come. Over the years, he had seen many an idealistic young boy come to Paris to be a musketeer, almost all of them failing or giving up and he had never given them a second thought. This one, though. This d’Artagnan, Rochefort found himself curiously disappointed at the idea that he had given up.

And then, just as he was on the verge of capitulating and going to the nearest brothels where one of the newer whores might be able to summon a modicum of enthusiasm, he got called to a tavern in one of the less salubrious areas of the city. Whilst Rochefort was a hands-on leader of the Red Guard – he had no patience for politics – he did leave a lot of things to his two seconds and both Jussac and Cagliostro had learned to judge situations over the years, so most of Rochefort’s work involved taking orders from Cardinal Richelieu and dealing with the bloody Musketeers. For Jussac to call him in for this, the either a Musketeer was involved – probably the fat one, Porthos, if they were at a tavern – or it was something else. Despite himself, Rochefort found his hope rising. Well, that or his cock.

He had been in luck. When he arrived at the tavern, at the same time as Cagliostro, his hopes were granted. There was no sign of Musketeers, just five of his Red Guard looking shamefaced and roughed-up, a pissed-off Jussac, a blonde that Rochefort was sure he had seen at the side of Queen Anne and one riled Gascon pup.

Rochefort’s favourite kind.

It didn’t take him long to get the details of the incident. Supposedly his men had been harassing the blonde and, of course, being the chivalrous creature that he was, the Gascon had stepped in to defend her honour, defeating Rochefort’s soldiers in the process. Jussac proceeded to inform him that all of the patrons that he had spoken to, as well as the barkeep, had corroborated the story. Rochefort had listened with a stony face, his mind racing as he tried to work out how best to turn the situation to his advantage.

“Jussac, I want these pathetic excuses of guards taken back to barracks and confined to quarters until I see fit. I shall deal with them once I have determined a suitable punishment for them. Cagliostro, you shall escort,” the name came to him, “Mademoiselle Bonacieux back to the palace along with a reminder that Queen Anne’s favoured lady-in-waiting should not be wandering the streets of Paris alone. You never know what might happen.”

The little chit actually had the audacity to try and argue with him, but Rochefort simply arched an eyebrow and she subsided. “I shall deal with young d’Artagnan here.”

There was no comment from either Jussac or Cagliostro; they both knew better than to question him. As did the piss poor excuses for his men. If they could be defeated so easily by a home-trained boy then they needed to re-do their basic training. The girl tried to protest – again – clearly not wanting to leave d’Artagnan alone with him. How sweet, she probably fancied herself in love with the boy or something. He was about to give a sneering reply but was beaten to it.

“Constance, the Comte is right; you should get back to the palace. There’s no need to worry about me; I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Well now, wasn’t that interesting. It wasn’t the way that d’Artagnan implied that he trusted Rochefort by his words that intrigued him, but rather the tone of voice, the way that his gaze slanted towards Rochefort. It was, dare he say it, almost coquettish. The girl seemed to accept that and went willingly with Cagliostro, until it was just Rochefort and d’Artagnan left in the courtyard.

What a change a couple of weeks made.

Gone was the truculent youth that Rochefort had forced to his knees in a stable. In his place, was an almost fey creature; the looks of a Botticelli angel but with that same spitfire spirit and insouciant mouth. Rochefort’s cock twitched as all of the debauched things that he could do to the boy flashed through his mind.

“You seem to take delight in causing trouble for me and my men, impudent pup.”

“My sincere apologies, monsieur le Comte.” D’Artagnan pressed closer, looking up at Rochefort through eyelashes that would make every lady at court envious. “Is there anything that I could do to … apologise for the trouble I’ve caused?”

With a quick glance around to ensure that they weren’t being observed, Rochefort traced his thumb over those plump lips, remembering just how good they had looked ruby-red, spit slick and stretched around his cock. The boy, rather than jerking back in horror, parted his lips slightly so that Rochefort could push his thumb into that soft, wet heat although he blushed a beautiful bright red. If Rochefort had thought he was a revelation before, now he was something else entirely.

“I can think of something. Is this where you’re lodging?”

He started rambling about Musketeers and various other things, but Rochefort cut him off. “I’m not interested in explanations. Is this where you’re lodging? Yes? Then take me to your room.”

For all of his bravery – stupidity, maybe – so far, Rochefort half-expected d’Artagnan to baulk about taking things further. So, he was both surprised – and grudgingly impressed – when the boy turned and, instead of going back into the tavern, led the way to the rooms to the side of the stable.

The second that the door was closed and locked behind them, d’Artagnan seemed to lose whatever bravado had carried him so far. That didn’t bother Rochefort though. He knew the boy was willing enough and that was all he needed. The room had clearly seen better days and was shabby and basic – little more than a pathetic excuse for a bed and a rickety chair and table that held a jug of water – but that was hardly surprising given the part of Paris in which the tavern was located. Rochefort removed his hat and jacket, hanging the hat over one of the bed posts and tossing the jacket over the chair which wobbled precariously before unbuckling his scabbard, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter.

“Strip.”

To give him his due, d’Artagnan did as he was told although his hands shook visibly, until he stood trembling and naked in the centre of the room. Rochefort hadn’t had the opportunity or the privacy to do this the last time and he drank in the sight in front of him. It was glorious. True natural beauty, not one that you would see among the city whores, not even one that you might see at court. Miles of pale skin just waiting to be marked by Rochefort, begging to be defiled.

And Rochefort would have him begging.

Rochefort moved his hands to the lacing of his breeches, nodding his head at d’Artagnan. “You know how this works, pup. On your knees.”

He was a little slow but there were no complaints. No outright refusal. There was a bit of a flinch, a flash of trepidation in those sea change eyes as Rochefort withdrew his already half-hard cock from his breeches, stroking it roughly a few times to bring it fully erect. Rochefort took a step forward, tracing the outline of those plump lips with the leaking tip of his cock, painting them to a pretty sheen with pre-come. He chuckled darkly when, as he pulled back just a fraction, d’Artagnan followed after his cock, licking his lips eagerly.

“You look like you belong on the walls of the Sistine Chapel with that face, but you’re just a little slut, aren’t you?”

Rochefort didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he just forced his cock past d’Artagnan’s lips and into that hot, wet orifice that he had been fantasising about. It was even better than he remembered. Not just the hot suction around his cock but seeing those lips blanch around his shaft. This time, d’Artagnan managed to get almost three-quarters of Rochefort’s shaft down his throat before he started gagging. Indeed, if it weren’t for how sloppy the effort was, Rochefort would have thought the boy had been practising. D’Artagnan was a quick learner though, there was no denying that. It didn’t take him long to figure out what Rochefort liked, and he applied that knowledge diligently, swallowing Rochefort’s cock eagerly down his throat and applying pressure to the vein that ran along the underside with his tongue. Oh, he still gagged on it, spit practically dripping down his chin, but Rochefort found that he quite liked that. Besides, the way he was going, d’Artagnan would be deep-throating in no time.

Given that he’d be fantasising about this for the better part of the last month, it didn’t take long for Rochefort to start approaching climax and he knew that, if he continued to enjoy the warmth of d’Artagnan’s mouth, then he’d find his release sooner than he’d like. Besides, he wanted to see if d’Artagnan’s arse was as good as his mouth. In order to do that though, he had to get the boy to pull off his cock; for all his reluctance the first time, it looked as though it wasn’t going to take much to turn him into a proper little cock-sucking whore. A quick glance down showed that d’Artagnan would undoubtedly enjoy the process; for all that his cock had been quiescent earlier, it had chubbed up nicely while he sucked Rochefort’s shaft and didn’t flag, even when Rochefort fisted his hand in those riotous curls and pulled him away, coughing and spluttering.

Not that Rochefort had any sympathy. Instead, he watched dispassionately, making a mental note to investigate d’Artagnan’s reaction to pain at a later date.

“Bend over the bed.”

He watched, a smirk twisting his lips, as the boy did precisely that, wiping spit and pre-come from his chin as he did so. The sight of d’Artagnan on his knees, lips stretched around Rochefort’s cock, had been delicious but the back view was just as good; long legs topped by a plush arse. The only thing that would improve it would be Rochefort splitting those perfect cheeks with his cock. Not wasting any time, he pulled a small flask of the oil that he used on his sword from his breeches, even as he kicked d’Artagnan’s legs wider.

Rochefort palmed one arse cheek while he covered the fingers of his other hand with the oil before spreading them to reveal his goal. He nearly moaned aloud as he inserted the first finger; he’d never had anybody this tight before ever. Could this little Gascon spitfire be any more perfect? He was going to be tight as a fucking vice around Rochefort’s cock. He wasn’t a total bastard, he would prepare the boy sufficiently. After all, Rochefort wanted to keep this one for as long as possible, there was no point in damaging him first time out.

Even by the time that Rochefort had three oiled fingers inside d’Artagnan, scissoring and stretching him in anticipation of what was to come, he was still ridiculously tight. Tight enough that Rochefort knew that he wasn’t going to last long. To be brutally honest, if he lasted longer than getting balls deep it was going to be down to sheer will-power alone.

Hastily oiling his cock, he wasted no time in burying himself to the hilt in d’Artagnan, spitting profanities all the way. It felt like his cock was being strangled and it was glorious. He couldn’t quite get the speed that he may have liked but he made up for it, thrusting so hard that he could feel the heat of d’Artagnan’s arse where Rochefort’s hips had snapped into it. As he had predicted, it was far sooner than he would have liked before he felt his sac drawing up once more. With a positively bestial roar, he found his release, allowing himself to fill d’Artagnan with the first few spurts of come before he pulled out and spilled the rest over that perfect arse.

As he relaced his breeches, reaching for his scabbard to belt it back around his waist, Rochefort’s eyes lingered over d’Artagnan’s heaving form where it remained sprawled across the bedcovers covered in sweat and Rochefort’s come. It was a delightful sight and Rochefort wanted nothing more than to remain but what he wanted needed privacy, something that he wasn’t going to get in a room out of the back of a tavern. Replacing his jacket, he reached up for his hat and, having replaced it on his head, couldn’t resist smacking a come-covered arse cheek, fascinated by both the beautiful red colour the pale flesh turned and the whimper that emanated from d’Artagnan.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come to the Palais-Cardinal tomorrow. 8pm. I have plans for you, boy.”


End file.
